Sam and Dean and Pigeon removal
by Bud Cordwell
Summary: Final chapter - Just as my mother is about to visit, two strange men arrive at the door offering to fix my pigeon infestation. Letting them in turns out to be a bad idea.
1. Chapter 1

I

I was under the table removing mould spores from the kitchen floor when the doorbell rang. No one ever rang my doorbell. I had a special tune installed and everything and no one had pressed the button in months. I disinfected my hands a few times, changed my jumper in case there were mould fumes left on it, and went to see who was there.

I peeped my head around the corner of the door. There were two men standing on my front step.

"Yes?" I said, my voice muffled by the doorframe.

"Is your name Bud?" asked the shorter one.

I had a sudden fear that they were debt collectors. I didn't owe any debts (I have a wall chart that reminded me when things were due) but I'd heard of this happening before – collectors breaking kneecaps before realising they got the wrong house, the wrong Bud. They looked like thugs – two men travelling around together. They were basically a gang. I didn't know why the government allowed it.

"How can I help?" I said.

"We're here to help you," said the taller one, in a serious voice. "A lot of people in your street have reported having pigeon infestations. We wondered if you had been hearing any noises lately."

I had. There was banging and smashing up in the rafters. It didn't sound like the pigeons though – unless they were staging wrestling matches. I had called a company but they said it would take three weeks before they could send anyone around.

I answered yes; I had been hearing noises.

"Well," said the shorter one, "Do you mind if we pop up there and have a look around?"

I told them I wished I could let them but I had my mother coming around in a few hours – I was cooking her dinner (I was making soufflés) – and I didn't want them banging around in my roof while she was there.

"That's cool," said the shorter one, "I like mothers."

He gave a wink and slipped passed into the hallway. The serious looking one frowned apologetically and walked in as well. I hate trades people – you either can't get them or you can't get rid of them. There's no happy medium.

I had to make sure they didn't break my collection of international parcels as they headed up the stairs.

I let them up the manhole and left them to their business. I read the numberplate on their car and loaded up the Internet to check it on the national road database – just to be safe. I typed in the site and clicked the search button.

II

The timer on my oven gave a sudden ding. I looked up from the computer screen. It would be about thirty seconds before my choc chip muffins began to sweat.

I ran down the corridor, bounding over the cleaning equipment I had been using for the mould spores and ripped open the oven door. I whipped out my hand and grabbed the oven mitt, extracting the muffins in the nick of time.

I sat down and began to chop up the parsley for the potato salad. I had to be fast because if you don't chop up parsley while it is cold, you lose a lot of the nutrients and therefore flavour into the chopping board. Mother would surely notice.

There was a bang from up above my head. A single cobweb fell from the ceiling and danced its way onto my parsley. I looked up.

Once I was at the top of the stairs, I called out through the manhole that I would like to speak to them if it was possible. The manhole slid open and the tall, serious one lowered himself from the ceiling. He was dripping with sweat. I asked him to step into the bathroom – I didn't want him dripping onto the carpet.

I said I appreciated what he and his friend were doing but my mother was coming around and I didn't want her to be bothered by the noise. She was a very stressed lady and liked peace and quiet. I didn't want her to think I had visitors all the time, that this was some kind of party house. She might think I was taking drugs or something.

He looked sympathetic and said he wished he could help but unfortunately the pigeon infestation might take a longer to clear than expected. It could take days.

"Days?" I said. I couldn't have strangers in my house for days. I had work in the morning – they couldn't be left in the house alone. What would the neighbours think?

As I was just about to explain this, the shorter one lowered himself from the ceiling. There was a cut on his forehead and blood was pouring onto his shirt. He looked towards the ceiling, panting.

"Big pigeons you've got here."

I quickly got him off the carpet.

I told him that the two of them were not welcome, that I had an important dinner with my mother and that they would be ruining it. The pigeon infestation could wait until later.

The shorter one answered that it couldn't. That now they had started they had to finish it. They had disturbed the pigeons and couldn't afford to have them flying away, nesting in roofs all over the city. I would have to grin and bear it.

I said I didn't have to grin and bear anything but he patted me on the shoulder and went back in the ceiling. I yelled out that I wouldn't be told what to do and even though I was smaller than them, if I heard so much as a noise I would forcibly remove them from my ceiling. There was a scream from the attic. I yelled out to them that I would not be patronised. I then returned to making my soufflés.

The clock in the kitchen said my mother would be there within the hour. Every second that went by meant she was a step closer. I could imagine her hopping in the car and doing up her seatbelt. I would have to hurry.


	2. Chapter 2

III

I was lighting the last candle on the table when I heard a knock on the door. I checked my collar in the hallway mirror and walked as calmly as I could to see who was there.

My mother was wearing her favourite red jacket. I helped her out of it and it smelt like lavender and fresh skin after a shower. I asked her if her journey had been pleasant. She said that it was fine but she wanted to know who owned the black car in the driveway. Did I have friends over? I laughed in a way that was almost convincing and told her that the neighbours had parked in my driveway by mistake. They had dementia I explained – I had no idea why the government let them drive when they couldn't remember where their house was. Wine?

We made our way into the kitchen and my mother asked me if I had been well. I told her all about my work – how I was getting a promotion in the office. (I work in a law firm – it is my job to make sure all the paper clips are kept straight on documents that are going out of department). I was being given a contract to research new staple technology and I believed I could save the department tens of thousands of dollars a year.

My mother said it all sounded very interesting. She asked if we could play any music – she had a splitting headache and wanted a break from talking for a few minutes. I dashed into the lounge room and tried to find my favourite CD – I was sure she would like it.

As I walked off the carpet and onto the linoleum, there was a smash above our heads. The building shook a little, like it was turning over in its sleep. My mother looked up from her wine, a questioning look on her face.

"What was that, Bud?"

I told her that they were doing work on the telephone lines and that it was only supposed to take a few minutes. The banging continued, dull thuds from upstairs like a heart beat from the attic. My heart was beating louder too. My mother would be sure to hear it. I slotted the jazz into the CD player and explained to her that it was my favourite CD because it marked the change between old and post-contemporary jazz and then went out into the garden to vomit.

As the last bits of tuna sandwich emerged from my stomach, I began to hear them screaming from the attic. They were having an argument now. I couldn't stand this any longer. I took long strides up the stairs – I was going to get them out even if I had to carry them.

IV

But when I made it up the stairs they were already out. They were covered with grease and mould and blood and god knows what else. They were wrestling each other on the carpet and I watched as my cleaning bill went through the ceiling. I yelled out to them to stop.

The tall one quickly got to his feet and wiped himself down. He said he was sorry about the noise – they were just having a friendly argument about what to kill the last pigeon with. He faltered before he said pigeon.

"It's a real bastard, this one," added the short one.

The tall one continued and said that he felt it was a simple relocation job; the short one said he thought they needed the big axe. He pushed by me and went downstairs to get it from their car. The tall one tried to stop him but he was already gone, leaving a river of green footprints flowing over my white carpet.

I turned to the tall one and said that they had to leave. They were making me look like an idiot in front of my mother. She had been very upset by all the loud noises.

That's when I heard her. My mother laughing from downstairs. The room seemed to shatter like a stain-glassed window. He was talking to my mother.

I walked down the stairs slowly. I didn't really want to find out if it was true or not. There they were, in the hall by the door, laughing and chatting away. He was leaning up against the wall, chest curved out and smiling – award winning toy boy smile that made me want to rearrange his face with a can opener. The tall, serious one followed behind me and I saw him put his head in his hands. My mother turned to me when she heard me reach the bottom step.

"Why didn't you tell me you had friends over?" she said.

"They aren't really my friends. They're just fixing my pigeon infestation."

"And why didn't you invite them to dinner?"

"I didn't think that would be…"

"Well then, I'll make up for your lack of manners and invite them to stay. Now boys, you just finish what you were doing and come down and get some food."

The two men went outside to their car. The tall one was speaking to the shorter one under his breath – he seemed agitated. I turned to my mother.

"Do you really want them to stay?" I said. "They're handy men, you know."

"Don't be a snob, Bud. Remember your father was a handyman."

I cringed a little on the inside.

"Oh," she added, "And you should get them some towels for the shower."

I'd get them towels. But I wasn't making them soufflés.


	3. Chapter 3

V

As I watched him dig into the potato salad I felt like my food was being assaulted. That wasn't what I made it for. My mother and I were supposed to be having quality bonding time – there shouldn't be this revolting exchange going on inside my own kitchen.

The tall one looked down at his plate sullenly. He wasn't eating. My mother and the other one were too caught up to notice – he was making her laugh in ways I never wanted to see her laugh again. They had replaced my jazz with some hideous eighties rock and it made my head hurt. He may have been cleaner after the shower but he was still making my kitchen filthy.

"So how did you get into pigeon removal?" my mother asked him.

"It's in the blood," he responded. "Our dad got down and dirty with pigeons before us and now we're taking over the family business."

"Your father's lucky to have such a strapping son following in his footsteps."

I wanted to hit him.

"You know, just trying to fill the old man's shoes," he said with a wink.

"I'd say you more than fill them. I bet you bulge out the sides."

She picked up a spoonful of peas and placed them in his mouth and he closed his slippery lips around the spoon. I was running through situations in which murder wasn't against the law.

The tall one gently pushed his chair away from the table. It screeched like my teeth being grinded.

"We should probably leave," he said to the short one as he got to his feet.

"Nonsense," said my mother. "We're having such a good time – you don't want to ruin the party."

"We have to be up early tomorrow."

The short one looked up from his peas and raised his eyebrows.

"That can wait," he said, "There's no point working hard if you can't have a bit of fun."

I said that there was a great deal of point in working hard without having fun – the economy actually depended on it. As usual, no one paid attention.

"We're sorry," said the taller one, "but tomorrow's job is important. _Really _important"

The shorter one looked up and sighed. He pushed his plate away and stood up, shooting his brother such a heated look that the temperature in the room rose a couple of degrees. Then he turned to my mother, gave her a genuine, loving, vomit inducing smile, kissed her cheek and then her lips, and they left the room. The silence in the kitchen fell so heavy that I had to push through it to get to the sink.

My mother didn't speak to me for the rest of the evening. I think she was annoyed I had agreed they should leave. I didn't mind if she was annoyed – at least they were gone. I planned to never see them again.

My mother had other ideas.

VI

When I rang my mother the next week a man picked up the phone.

"Sorry", he said, "We're in the bath right now."

Then he laughed and corrected himself.

"I mean – she's in the bath. Can I take a message for you?"

I didn't know what to say. It felt like I had swallowed a snooker ball and it was lodged in my throat. I forced the words out.

"I'm sorry," I said, adding an indignant inflection which I hoped would frighten him (it didn't), "Who is this?"

The phone began to ruffle in my ear as my mother took the phone from him.

"Is that you, Bud? What do you want?"

I told her that it was Sunday night – our dinner night – would she like to come over? She said she was busy with Dean. I nearly dropped the phone – imagining his body, abs like coiled rope, upper arms like cricket bats, soiling my mother – I felt tears forcing their way up to my sockets. I hung up the phone.

For the next hour my house was purgatory. I sat on my bed, unsure whether I should stay where I was, leave town, or go over and murder him. I tried to eat. I tried to rearrange my international parcel collection in a new and interesting way. I cried all the way through doing the dishes – saliva dribbling from my mouth and mixing with the dishwashing liquid.

I had resolved to hop on my bike, ride around to my mother's and throw him out when someone rang my doorbell. The little tune rang around the house, spun around the lounge room, nestled itself into the corner and fell to sleep again. Twice in one week –a personal best. I didn't answer it straight away – I wanted to stay inside, let the world go by, and pretend I wasn't there. But the doorbell rang again, I wiped my eyes and headed to the door.

Standing in the doorway was the brother – the tall, serious looking one. His eyes were tired – there were black rings under them like charcoal. He mustn't have been sleeping. I asked him what the problem was – I thought they would have got my cheque in the mail. Maybe it had gone to the wrong place and he had come to get it from me by force. I gently moved my kneecaps behind the door frame.

The tall one explained that he was worried about his brother. He had seen him hooked by women before but this was different. They never had such hold over him – it was almost unnatural. He said they had always had mother issues but this was taking things too far.

And to make it worse – they had a really important job to do. In the next town there was an enormous pigeon infestation – and he wasn't talking regular-enormous pigeon infestation, he was talking end-of-the-world-enormous pigeon infestation. If they didn't leave now, all hell would break loose.

We had to do something he said – if we put our heads together surely we could think of a solution.

I invited him in for coffee. I made him wipe his feet first. He may have been the only hope I had but he still wasn't going to ruin my carpet again.


	4. Chapter 4

VII

I rang up my mother to ask if she and her new boyfriend would still like to come over for dinner. I would make them a casserole and they could stay the night. They could even sleep in the same room if they wanted. It took some convincing but eventually my mother gave in. She said it would be best for us in the long run since, after all, he was going to be part of the family. I had to bite my tongue when she said that. There was no way that was going to happen.

I took their jackets as they walked in the door (his jacket smelt like dust and cobwebs – mixed with my mother's perfume – I grimaced) and told them to go straight into the kitchen. I put on a loud eighties CD (I said I wanted them to feel welcome) and turned the volume right up. That way they wouldn't hear what was happening in the hallway. I reached into my pocket to make sure that the tranquilliser syringe wasn't sticking out. It would be incredibly hard to explain if they spotted it.

"Oh," I said, as if I had just remembered something, "I'm having a bit of trouble with my doorbell – would you mind having a look at it for me, Dean?"

My mother looked up from her fingernails. She had painted them for him – a childish bright pink. I wanted to tell her to grow up.

"Don't be silly, Bud dear," she said, "We just rang the doorbell. It was working fine."

She was right. I hadn't thought it through properly.

"I know that," I stammered, making things up as I went along, laying the tracks just before the train went over them. "But it only works half the time. Would you mind having a look – it will only take a second."

My mother's boyfriend gave her a knowing grin (if only he really knew) and then followed me out into the hallway.

I was beginning to feel nervous and I think it was because of the syringe. What was the tall one doing with a syringe anyway? I had no idea where it had been. I could be infected already. And not to mention I didn't know how to use it. What if I missed? What if I injected myself with it by mistake? Was I even sure which end was which? My mother would see what I was trying to do and never talk to me again.

"Well, it seems all right to me," he said.

I sprung the needle from my pocket and jabbed him in the arm. I tried to pull it from his arm again but it was stuck. I couldn't get the right angle to remove it. His eyes began to droop as I frantically tried to get needle out of him. The thought of the needle in the skin made me feel uneasy – I could feel vomit starting to climb up my food pipe. He fell to the ground and I began to empty my stomach all over the carpet.

I opened the door and (between the outbursts of carrots) yelled out to his brother that the needle was stuck. The brother emerged from the bushes and told me that it didn't matter, we just had to get him to the car. The shorter one was squirming around on the floor so we grabbed him under either arm and carried him, like a scarecrow, out of the house.

The taller one began to mumble under his breath. I thought he was swearing but then I realised he was speaking Latin. I asked him what he was saying but when he didn't respond I told him that it was rude to talk in another language in front of people and if he was going to say something he should say it so we could all understand him. The short one muttered, as his mouth slowly lost its muscle movement:

"Dis idn't what you tink it... Dis idn't some trick – dissis real – I love har. I love harr...."

We placed him in the car and his body slumped into the shape of the seat. I wanted to kick him while I could but I restrained myself and stepped back towards the house. The taller one was now sprinkling the short one with a dark powder, still muttering in Latin and I felt a sudden wave of relief that we would never be related.

I walked through the front door. The house suddenly felt lighter – it was as if the walls had spread further apart, invisible windows had been installed into the plaster work, leaving me with more space to breathe. I turned on my heel, about to close the door.

"Bud?"

My mother had walked in from the kitchen. She stopped where she was and looked at me for a second.

"Where's Dean?" she said.

The walls began to creep closer together again.

VIII

I had planned what I was going to say but I didn't expect the two men to still be in driveway when I said it. I could still hear the taller one chanting outside – it wasn't going to be easy.

"I tried to stop him – but he left," I stuttered. "He said he'd had enough of you – he'd never really loved you at all."

My mother looked at me blankly. Her eyes, her mouth – there was not even a twitch. I couldn't tell what was going on behind her face.

"He didn't really, did he?" she said.

"Yes. I told him it was cruel, I told him you deserved better than that. He just wouldn't listen."

My mother took a few steps closer to me. The eighties rock was still banging in the background but it seemed to be fading away. She didn't take her eyes off me for even a moment.

"What made him decide that now?"

I was lucky – I had this one scripted.

"He said he realised how you truly deserved to be loved," I said. "He said he saw me – how much I loved you – and it made him see the error of his ways. He couldn't even bare to face you after he realised what a mistake he had made."

My mother's face still didn't move. It was like looking into a deep dark well. I had expected at least a smile – some small warming up. Maybe she would have hugged me. Kissed me on the cheek.

The car started up in the background. My mother's eyes pricked open.

"That's their car."

She began to walk down the corridor, trying to get past, but I put my body out to stop her. She began to hit me with her fists. I grabbed hold of her hands and put them by her side. She continued struggling, biting at me with her teeth.

"Mother," I said, pushing her away – she went backwards a few steps. "That's it. You have to make a decision. It's either him or me. You can walk by me – I won't stop you – but I want you to know that if you do you will never see me again – for the rest of your life."

She came to a standstill. Her breathing filled the room as it slowed down to a normal pace. She looked at me gently for a brief moment. And then she started heading for the door.

There was a sudden bang behind me. The taller one was back. I had never been so glad to see anyone in my life. He had a clear bottle of water in his hand; he walked towards my mother and began to spray her with it. She shrieked – her dress clinging to her body, her hair falling into a wet clump on her head. She fell to the ground and began to sob.

"It must be the house," he said and ran into the lounge room.

It took me a moment to realise what he was doing. He had several jars of dark fluid attached to his belt that he was spraying around the lounge room. The fluid splattered on the walls and slopped onto the furniture – the colour of blood mixed with urine. I tried to stop him; I told him he was crazy, but he said it had to be done, shouting away in Latin like a heretic, running from room to room, destroying my house. I scratched at him, I kicked him, I ripped his clothing, but he just brushed me aside and kept going.

When all the fluid was gone and the walls looked like they had been painted by a dyslexic home renovation team, he threw the empty canisters onto the ground, left the house, and drove off in the car. We listened to the engine and the eighties rock as it whined away in the distance.

My mother looked up from the ground. Her hair partially covered her eyes but I could now read what she was thinking.

She wanted me to die.

IX

By the end of the fortnight my house was beginning to look better. I had wiped the fluid off the walls as best I could but there was still a light stain on the plaster, like the house had been bruised. The furniture had come up best but it still had a rotten smell fuming out from it, like fermented coffee. I had given up on the carpet – I would call a handy man when I had spoken to my councillor about my handyman phobia. My international parcel collection was also beyond repair – they had shrivelled up and seemed determined to just wither away.

My mother had not answered my telephone calls. I wanted her to forgive me. I wanted her to call me and say she had seen the error of her ways, that she should have put me before anything else. But I had a feeling she had skipped town. Maybe she was staying with one of my aunties or, worse, maybe she had gone back to my dad. The thought made me die a little on the inside.

I went down the shops and brought myself two weeks supply of prawn crackers, ripped out my doorbell, bolted the door, sat in my lounge room and watched infomercials about people with perfect teeth.


	5. Part II chapter I

PART II

I

The banging started again in my attic within a week. The pigeons must have moved in again, soiling my attic with their carcinogenic left overs, jumping around like they were demolishing the house from the inside. I couldn't sleep, imagining their tiny droplets of poison raining down on my bed sheets.

I hopped on the telephone to a pest removal company and said I didn't care how much it cost me, I wanted to skip the queue and have someone come to remove the pigeons as soon as possible. The man on the phone said he would be around in a few hours to get rid of them. The van pulled up outside of my house, two men got out and I showed them the way up into the attic. They were clean, well spoken, and I felt they were going to do a good job.

I waited for three days for them to come back down. Either they were being incredibly thorough or they were contending with a civilisation of pigeons the size of the Roman Empire. I finally gave up on them, presuming they had crept out without me knowing and without sending me the bill. Pest removalists can be strange sometimes.

No one knows how to put in a hard day's work anymore. I called another bunch of pigeon removalists but they also never came down from the attic. By the time I stopped bothering to call new ones, the street outside my house was littered with a dozen pest removal vans, as if they were holding a pest removal convention inside my attic.

As my mother used to say before she stopped answering my phone calls, if you want a job done properly, you have to do it yourself. Eventually, I decided enough was enough and I would go up myself to do it. I am scared of places with low ceilings and no lights so it took me some time to build myself up to go up there. I put on my gas mask in case there were dangerous mould spores floating around, and struggled my way through the manhole.

Once inside, I shone my torch around the attic. Right in the middle, lined up in rows as if they were tables at a cheap diner, were coffins. There were about ten of them, cobwebs laced over them, joining them together like bridges. Against the back wall there was an altar, covered with candles, and so many jars and bottles of strange fluids that made it look like a disturbing supermarket.

I took several steps closer, walking softer than I had ever walked in my life, and looked inside one of them. There was a man lying on his back, sleeping, his face pale and distorted. I checked the others; there were people inside those as well. I went back downstairs and picked up the telephone.

I rang up the first pest control people, Dean and his brother, whatever his name was. I never wanted to speak to them again but this was different. I had paid good money for them to do their job. I asked them what the hell they thought they were doing – surely they would have mentioned the cult sleeping in coffins in my ceiling. It wasn't as if it was something you could overlook.

It was the taller one who answered the phone. He said he wished they could help but things were difficult at that point in time. His brother had been missing for a few days, he didn't know where he had gone and, even if he was around, he didn't think it was wise for him to be anywhere near my mother again anyway. He hung up the phone, leaving me alone with the cult in my attic.

I wondered if it would cost much to buy a new house. I could leave the cult upstairs to run its course, the various members to grow up and get white collar jobs in the paper industry (that's what always happens to those kind of people), and I wouldn't have to deal with it.

But there was a sudden noise in the kitchen.

II

I found him sitting at the table. It was the shorter one, Dean, and he had his head in his hands, crying. I stood in the doorway for a moment, wondering if I could get behind him to where the telephone was and call the police but then I remembered I had a phobia of police so I resolved to go upstairs, lock myself in my room and not come out until morning, but then I remembered the cult was upstairs and I didn't want anything to do with them either.

As I debated over whether or not to retreat back into the hallway, he looked up and stared at me, pinning me to the floor with his eyes. His face was all bloated with tears, his cheeks red and raw. He looked like he had been crying for days. With a gesture of his hand, he motioned me to sit down and, because he was still considerably larger than me, I sat down.

"I don't normally do this," he said, "This crying crap."

I nodded. I couldn't think of anything else to do.

"I had to come back," he continued. "I needed to know what happened."

He explained how his brother had told him it had been a trick, how he hadn't really loved my mother at all, how he just thought he did. I told him that was probably right. My mother was considerably older than him and, besides, there was only room for one man in her life and that was me. But the good news was, I added, I had a bit of an infestation in the ceiling again if… Dean put his head down so his face was flat against the table and began to sob again, loud and violent, like he was gasping for air. I felt a sudden pain in my heart – he was staining my tablecloth.

He asked if he could see her. He said this had to be real – he had done everything to cure himself of his addiction but it was a strong as ever. Even his brother had finally conceded that it must be love. He would give it all away – his career in pigeon removal, everything – if he could see her just one more time. He would keep coming back until he saw her – even if it took years.

That was the last thing I needed to hear. I needed a lie. A good one.

"She's dead."

"What?"

"She's dead. Happened last week. Awful shame."

He looked at me in disbelief for a moment.

"She went up into the attic. They tore her to pieces. She left a note."

"What did it say?"

"It was to you. It said something about not wanting to go on alone anymore. It was really sweet in a badly written sort of way."

He burst into louder tears now – so violent it was like he was turning his body from inside out.

"But anyway," I added, "So my ceiling problem…"

"Tomorrow," he managed to stagger out, "I can't do it now, I have to be alone for a while. Can I sleep here tonight?"

I told him he could and he left the room, leaning on the wall for support as he went.

Brilliant, I thought. Things were finally going right. He would fix up the cult in my ceiling, he would leave, and I would be left to live the way I had always lived.

But I couldn't help the feeling I had in my stomach, the feeling that everything would go dreadfully wrong. I went to sleep and dreamt cold hard dreams of pigeons destroying my house, ripping up the floor boards, pulling out the nails, one by one.


	6. Chapter 6

III

I felt a hand on my shoulder and thought I was going to die. They had come down from the ceiling and planned to play ice hockey with my skull, make health drinks with my blood. I kicked frantically in their direction and prayed whoever it was was fragile.

"Dude, hold up," a voice said. "I hate waking up too but you've got to help me out here."

I relaxed back into the sheets. It was Dean. I turned over to face him and my heart stopped momentarily when I saw the enormous axe in his hand. I threw myself up against the wall.

"F – what are you doing with that?"

"Relax. This one's yours. We're clearing out your attic."

He tried to give me the axe but I pulled back my hand. I told him we could clear out the attic without killing anyone. I was thinking we would ask them politely if they would please leave or threaten to call the police. Surely we could do that without using an axe. Dean rolled his eyes.

"You really are slow on the uptake," he said.

I told him that I had scored two hundred in an IQ test once and was generally considered to be the fastest person on the uptake I knew. He slapped me on the shoulder and pulled me to my feet. He forced the axe in my hand and ruffled my hair.

"You should probably have some breakfast. It'll be a big day."

And he left the room. For someone who thought he had lost the love of his life the day before, he had bounced back impressively. I flattened my hair back down again and felt my anger smouldering inside. I didn't need be patronised by a thug.

I had worked myself into a state by the time I was pouring my cereal. What had I done? I had let a man into my house who was going to commit multiple murders in my attic. Maybe I should tell him I wasn't that worried about them anymore – I quite liked having people in my attic – they hadn't done anything wrong – maybe I could invite them down to dinner and everyone would get along splendidly. We didn't know for sure that they had any sinister motives. There was no point in jumping to conclusions. Or manslaughter.

"I'll see you in the attic," he yelled out as he walked up the stairs.

"No wait –"

I would have yelled out for him to stop but there was a knock on the door. I'm sure that's the way it sounds when someone knocks on the lid of your coffin. Maybe it would be someone who could help me. It could only make things better. I ran to answer it.

IV

The moment I opened the door I was sorry. It was my mother.

She began to walk through the door, saying she'd just got back from my father's and thought she should probably see me. I was her son, after all – for better or for worse. She smelt like clean air – she must have been in the country. She said she would kill for a coffee and, as she walked towards the kitchen, I tried to tell her that it wasn't a good time but she walked in anyway.

She sat down at the table and began to leaf through the catalogues, messing them up with the newspapers I had separated for recycling. Her hair had now been died dark black, all streaks of grey coloured in, and she looked fuller than before, as if she was brand new. She didn't look at me – she must still have been angry. There were dull thuds from upstairs but I could cover them with the bubbling of the kettle.

"Sit down here, Bud," she said, pointing to a chair, her voice commanding. I sat down where she told me to. I waited in silence as she finished looking at the lingerie prices, folded the catalogue away and slid it over with the others. She finally looked up at me.

"We should talk about what happened," she said.

I didn't nod. I didn't think I should do anything. My mouth began to twitch and I didn't know where to put my hands. I folded them in my lap and looked down at them.

"You know that I'm angry about what you did," she said gently, "And you know that what you hurt my feelings."

I began to squirm in my seat. I hated when my mother reprimanded me. Why couldn't she see that I was a good child? All I needed was tenderness, a hand to hold, a mother snuggle up to me as I fell to sleep at night. Why couldn't she love me the way I wanted her to? I was beginning to weep.

"Don't be such a child, Bud," she said, "Shut up and let me finish."

I snorted my tears back into my nostrils.

"I might be angry with you, but I think what you did was the right thing."

Now I choked on my tears. I looked up, my eyes widened in shock.

"Wh-what?" I stuttered.

"There's something I want you to know," she said. "About me."

She looked over at the catalogues, just long enough for a dramatic silence. There were things I wanted to tell her too – how her boyfriend was now in the attic chasing innocent people around with an axe.

"You see, Bud, I have this ability. It's something that most people don't have. It allows me to – well – it allows me to interest men. In ways they might not normally be interested."

I told my mother that she was a very attractive woman and of course men would be interested in her. It was perfectly natural. Even I – I mean – if she wasn't my mother – even I would be interested. She cut me off.

"I don't think you understand. What I did to Dean is something I should never have done…"

"You mean what he did to you, the filthy…"

"Don't interrupt, Bud, it's a bad habit. Let me just put this plainly for you. Bud. I'm a –"

There was a sudden shrieking from upstairs. It was like a human voice mixed with the screeching of a car tyre. My mother stood up.

"He's upstairs, isn't he?" she said.

"What – who? That's just sparrows…"

"Why didn't you tell me he was here?"

I tried to stop her leaving the room but she pushed me out of the way. I yelled after her as she headed up the stairs. I grabbed onto her clothing.

"Why do you want to see him? I thought you said what you did was wrong," I cried.

"Shut up, Bud, you do gooder jerk face."

She pushed me back down the stairs. My forehead slid along the banister as I fell and I watched helplessly as my mother pushed the manhole open and lifted herself through to the attic.

I had no urge to move ever again. I wouldn't eat. I wouldn't drink. If I had a choice, I wouldn't breathe either. I would end my life then and there – not moving from that spot.

Suddenly there was a noise behind me. Dean walked in from the lounge room, drying his hands on a towel.

"They're a noisy bunch today, aren't they?"

My breathing stopped involuntarily. I barely got out the words – wasn't he – ?

"I forgot to sharpen my axe," he explained.

I felt like I was going to vomit again but I knew if I did, I wouldn't stop until I was an empty sack of skin and my insides were all over the floor. Another shriek from upstairs ripped through the house. Whoever they were, they were in full swing.

And my mother was with them.


	7. Chapter 7

V

He must have noticed how my pupils contracted. Or how the sweat started to pour out of me like I was a wet sponge on the floor that someone had accidentally stepped on. My shirt collar suddenly felt like a noose.

I tried to stutter out the words but I had temporarily forgotten how the English language worked. I didn't know if I should tell him anyway – I didn't want him anywhere near my mother. But on the other hand, my mother wasn't of much use to anyone if she was in a thousand jigsaw pieces all over my attic. But then again, was she of much use to me when she was with Dean? Surely there must be an option C.

And there was. It flashed like lightning in my mind, beautiful but terrifying.

"I imagined it," I said.

Dean stared at me for a moment. He raised his eyebrows. I told him that the people in my attic had only been a dream and I had only just remembered that it wasn't real. I was sorry that I had wasted his time. In fact, he could probably put the axe back in the car and I would come out in a moment to pay him, just a token gesture since he had stuck around. Well, not both axes, I added, I would be using one for just a couple of moments for something I needed to do upstairs in my room. A bit of interior decoration, I was thinking of shortening a chair. I certainly didn't plan to kill anyone, I added, especially since there was no one to kill and I had only imagined it.

Dean's forehead pulled together in confusion.

"Dude, I can just do it myself, it's what I do. You should have a lie down, you're not thinking straight."

No, I told him, I definitely was thinking straight. I'd see him outside in just a few moments. I started heading up the stairs to my room where I had the axe against the wall. Surely I could just talk to them, ask them to let my mother go, and, if that didn't work, well, surely axes couldn't be that hard to use. I knew how to use a stapler. And an envelope opener – they were basically the same thing as an axe, only smaller versions.

"You're going to die," Dean called up the stairs. I slipped a little on the carpet and tried to pretend I didn't, tried to look casual. "They will open you up like Christmas turkey," he continued, "and spray you around your attic like tomato sauce. But if there's two of us, we can save her."

I stopped on the top stair. How? How did he know? I looked back at him and he shrugged his shoulders.

"I could smell her in your kitchen. She's only just arrived but I can recognise that perfume anywhere."

So the game was up. I thought only I knew her smell.

"And dude, I think you should probably look at what you're doing. You can't seriously be so screwed up that you'd rather your mother was eaten alive than be with me."

I was pretty screwed up. My therapist said I was his favourite patient because I had more problems than a college maths book. I could probably even use it as an excuse in court, not that I would try it because I'm scared of the justice system. Why should I care if this thug didn't get what he wanted? If I couldn't have her, why should anyone else?

"Dude?"

I think my mind stopped working. I was too tired to even think. I looked forward at him blankly.

"Are you going to let me up the stairs and help me out or am I going to back hand you?"

A shriek came from upstairs.

"Dude, she's your mother."

I thought she was mine but she wasn't. She was like a rental property – mine until the landlord calls on the phone and tells me that I'm evicted.

Our eyes locked for what seemed an age. I wasn't going to move.

VI

I slid open the manhole into my attic and struggled to get my axe through after me. It was much heavier than I imagined it would be and the head was a funny shape so I found it difficult to move around. I had left Dean downstairs, cocky, arms crossed, reclining on the bottom step. He had waved me goodbye as I ascended.

I could just imagine him sharpening his axe downstairs. At the slightest call for help he would be up with me, slicing and hacking his way through the cult members and into my mother's heart. I was determined not to let that happen. I was also determined not to die in the process though that part was slightly less important.

Inside the attic it was so dark that it seemed like the black was swallowing the light and spitting it back out again in more black. I fumbled around the rafters for the piece of plastic on a string – the light switch – and hoped I didn't run across something else first, a bony hand, a cold piece of skin. There was fumbling going on somewhere around me and there were small grunts. Maybe turning on the light would not be a good idea.

I pulled down the light cord with a twang. The light sprang into action and I could see them, their hands shielding their eyes, all huddled around my mother in the far end of the attic. They had her bound with a sock stuffed in her mouth. A few got to their feet.

"Hi, guys," I said. I tried to sound pleasant in a friendly-neighbour sort of way. I was going for the "Can I borrow your sugar?" tone of voice. But it didn't seem to work – one of the group bared her teeth in her misshapen mouth and growled at me. I wondered if all cult members were this dramatic – everyone wants to be an actor.

"Yeah, OK," I laughed nervously (I could see my mother's terrified eyes from over the top of one of their veiny hands). "I don't want to be, you know, ah, raining on any parades, or killing the party so to speak…but um…"

This was going terribly.

"But um…this is…this is my attic, which isn't normally a problem…ah, well it wouldn't be but, you see, that's my, ah, that's my mother you've got there and I wondered if you could please, you know, just let her go."

They looked at me, then they looked at each other, and then they began to laugh. It was a low gurgling laugh, like a pot boiling on the stove and then one laughed loudly and it was the shriek that I had heard from downstairs. I had no idea how he could make such a sound. I was running in my head but I had to stand my ground just a little longer.

"Yeah, well, I…I can see the funny side too," I said. "I suppose. But uh…well, what you're doing is actually against the law. Trespassing is a federal offence. I mean, it's not like I'm going to call the police or anything…well, you know, if we can talk about this reasonably I'm sure I won't have to. You can even rent up here if you like it that much. I can draw up a lease tomorrow… if … but about my mother, I think you better let her go. I can be flexible with the rent but not with my mother. Just let her go."

One took a step towards me.

"Or what?"

And he began running towards me.


	8. Chapter 8

VII

I picked up the axe and swung it. It sliced through his arm, straight through the bone, making a horrible cracking noise as it did. I watched in horror as the dismembered limb flew across the attic like an ugly bird, and thwacked against the wall. I had never done anything like that before.

"Oh God," I said. "Sorry about this…"

The man stared at me in shock for a brief moment and I used that he was stationary as a chance to go in for another cut.

This time I shortened his leg. He fell down like a stack of baked beans when you remove the bottom can in the supermarket. The sight made me feel sick, the dark red bubbling out of his split body part. My mind went light and dizzy and it felt like my brain was spinning around in my head. I was going to vomit again. And then it would be all over.

I had to keep going. I picked the man up and threw him across the room, trying to get his gaping wound out of my sight. He hit against the wall just like his arm had – but this time the wall gave way. We heard the crack of his ribs when he fell.

Light came streaming into the attic. The day outside was burning and the light shone directly onto the ground and the cult member's skins. They jumped to their feet and started to scratch in pain. It was as if they suddenly had millions of lice running over their skins. I took a breath and went in for another one.

"Sorry, ma'am," I said as I grabbed a lady by the arm and threw her out of the hole in the wall. As she fell, she waved her arms like propellers. But she didn't fly.

I went in for another and saw my mother from over one of their shoulders. She had been pulled into the only bit of shadow in the corner and one of them was holding his hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide and I could see she was trying to scream something out. She might have been calling out to Dean. It suddenly occurred to me that he might try and help me out.

"We're doing OK up here, by the way, Dean," I yelled downstairs, hoping he would hear.

"OK, champ," he yelled back, "I'm just down here when they start kicking your arse."

I could have hit him.

I took another one of them by the shoulders but she was too quick and hit me in the stomach. She stood behind me and squeezed my neck in a headlock. I could feel the blood building up on either side of her arm, bursting to get through as the air in my lungs began screaming to get out. I choked out some words, begging her to let me go.

"Sounds like you're really showing them up there," Dean yelled out.

The anger was what I needed. I started swinging the axe through my legs and cut into her thigh. She jumped away, letting go of my neck. I was desperate for air but I didn't have time to breathe, leaping after her again and again with the axe. She took some steps towards the hole leading outside, her itching growing bigger the closer she got to the sunlight. She was preparing to turn around, ready to run towards me again. That's when I saw it.

It was impossible. The man I had thrown through the wall was now climbing back in. I couldn't believe it. He didn't even look like he was in pain. The lady I had thrown out was following after him. No one could fall that far and be able to move, let alone climb back up again.

I ran towards them and tried to stop them coming back in. I stamped on their fingers, I pushed their torsos, I kicked their faces, but they just laughed loudly. The others began to join in. Then they began to circle me.

"All right," I screamed, "I can see you're all pretty tough …"

The circle drew tighter.

"But I have an axe. So how about you just quit while you're ahead, pack your stuff and leave us alone."

One punched me from behind. Another kicked me in the kneecaps. Another ripped the axe from my hands.

They were ripping at my hair, pulling large chunks of it out. Others were ripping at my clothes and digging at my skin with their sharp fingernails. Others just continued to kick me, my head, my feet, my ribs. I cried out in pain. There was a taste of blood in my mouth.

Through their shadows and their legs moving in and out of my vision, I could see my mother against the wall. They had left her alone so they could kick me but now one was making it's way back towards her.

"Dean!"

VIII

I was surprised to hear that the words had come out of my own mouth. The group stopped kicking at me and looked surprised towards the manhole.

Dean came charging into the attic and started decimating them, shooting them with arrows, removing their heads from their bodies. It was the most horrifically violent thing I had ever seen. Within twenty seconds he had slaughtered them all. I can't even boil the kettle in twenty seconds. I buried my head in my hands and pretended I was at the office straightening paper clips. Rounded ones, slightly cracked ones, ones that came warped from the factories. I began to cry.

***

I don't think my mother even noticed that I had helped. She suckered onto his mouth as I stepped over the mess he had made on the floor. I went downstairs to blubber in the shower. My therapist would have had a field day with a story like this. He could probably even write a research paper on it but then I remembered that I couldn't tell him. Ever.

The serious looking brother arrived around lunchtime. His floppy brown hair fell like a mop around his ears and he looked miserable. He looked at me as if it was my fault. He told me that the idea was that my mother would travel around with them across the country as they removed pests like pigeons and cult members from houses like mine. There was no other way to separate them. I agreed because I couldn't do anything else. I said goodbye to my mother politely. I was almost glad to see her go.

It was a happy ending all round. The boy got the girl, the bad guys were destroyed, and I was left to clean up the mess. I didn't have enough garbage bags and I had to go to the shops to buy some more.

I rang work and told them that I would not be going in for a while because I was sick but they could send over some bent staples and I would straighten them at home. They did.

I called up my therapist and made an appointment for the next three days, all of them six hour sessions. I told him my mother complex had come back again and he said we would talk about it later.

Real pigeons had moved into the attic within the week, through the hole I had made in the wall.

I didn't bother calling anyone to get rid of them.

THE END 


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